Still Invisible
by chappysmom
Summary: Sequel to "Invisible." Now that Sherlock knows about John's gift of appearing invisible, things get a little complicated-and Irene Adler isn't helping. 3 chapters
1. Chapter 1

Sequel to "Invisible." Now that Sherlock knows about John's gift of appearing invisible, things get a little complicated-and Irene Adler isn't helping.

Notes: As always, I own nothing but my own plot. The characters and universe belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or britpicked-all mistakes are entirely my own.

##

Well, this made for an interesting change of pace, John thought. It certainly was a far cry from his last helicopter ride. Cleaner. Less gunfire. No excruciating shoulder wound. Better view. He didn't know why he was here, but the chance to see London from the air was amazing. He couldn't deny that landing at Buckingham Palace wasn't high on the jaw-dropping scale, either.

So when he rounded the corner to see Sherlock—wrapped only in a sheet—sitting on a sofa, he was barely surprised. A man could only absorb so many sudden, startling surprises in one afternoon.

Not that life with Sherlock wasn't one, long, continuous surprise. Serial killers, consulting criminals, heads in the fridge, violin at all hours. It was never, ever boring.

Even his gift was less boring than it used to be. Before he met Sherlock, he had (consciously, at least) used it sparingly and mostly just to be left alone. In the months since the confrontation with Moriarty, however, he had continually tested and stretched the limits of what he thought was possible.

That was all due to Sherlock, of course. John enjoyed a puzzle and a good scientific inquiry as much as the next man, but that was nothing compared to Sherlock Holmes with a good mystery between his teeth. He wanted to know _everything_. He was utterly fascinated that John could essentially become invisible to the people around him. When had John started being able to 'disappear?' How many people could he hide? Could his mental misdirect that made people ignore him be directed only at specific people? Could he hide things as well as himself? (This last was something John had never thought about but had been eager to look into—it could be very handy for a man with an illegal handgun.)

So, no, things were definitely not boring. Occasionally exhausting or terrifying, but never boring.

Sitting in Buckingham Palace, though, he couldn't help but wonder how Mycroft felt about this. Sherlock's brother already knew about John's gift, of course. He had even tried to recruit him just after the Pool incident months ago (if you could call drugging him with truth serum and then hunting him for 24 hours "recruiting"). John had helped him on a couple jobs, but it always caused friction with Sherlock, so he tried not to. The fact that he'd been flown in for this meeting (in Buckingham Palace!) rather implied that this was going to be a case he couldn't refuse.

And so he sat and listened to Sherlock bicker with his brother in front of, well, whoever the important gent in the expensive suit was. He sipped his tea—possibly the best cuppa he'd ever had in his life—and marveled at the Holmes brothers. He knew they didn't get along, and had witnessed more than enough of their squabbles, but that Sherlock was sitting here, that he had come to Buckingham Palace wrapped in nothing more than a sheet, just to spite his brother?

It just went to prove that he would never, not in a million years, understand Sherlock Holmes.

Which, he had to admit, just added to the savor. Life was never boring.

#

Nor was it boring, hours later, when he walked in on Sherlock and a very naked Irene Adler. (What was it with people being naked today?) He hadn't even needed his gift to be totally invisible as the two of them traded barbs. Sherlock's timing was off, though, as if he weren't focused on the job properly, which John had never seen before.

He quietly went into the hall to set off the smoke detector just as Sherlock asked, and couldn't help jumping when it was shot by the man coming down the stairs. Nobody respected gun laws any more, he thought, as he leaned back, doing his best not to be seen as he followed the men into Irene Adler's sitting room.

He wasn't going to be able to take out three of them, he thought, not without it being obvious, and Irene Adler looked like the observant type. So far, Sherlock was the only person who seemed always to see him, but John had to put solid effort into avoiding Mycroft's attention, and watching Irene's sharp eyes, suspected she might be the same. And so he ducked behind a chair as the American threatened Sherlock and Irene.

What was he going to do? Three men with guns, men who looked all too happy to use them. (Well, they were Americans.) If he needed to, he could hide Sherlock—and Irene, he supposed—long enough to confuse the shooters, but that would give too much away. He'd been working on focusing his gift just on certain people, so he could theoretically hide Sherlock from the Americans while not giving anything away to Irene. Maybe. But it was a risk because when the Americas started waving their guns around, shouting "Where'd he go?" it would rather give the game away.

He met Sherlock's eyes, hoping he had a plan, but he just looked dumbfounded. The gun-happy Americans insisted Irene must have told him the code, but John had been standing right outside the door and hadn't heard anything. He had no idea where they'd gotten this idea.

"We'll shoot Dr. Watson when he comes back in the room if you don't open the safe now," the leader threatened.

"And how do you know I haven't sent him to get help?" asked Sherlock, hands hovering behind his head. John saw Irene's eyes flicker in his direction, which meant she could see him, damn it.

"Then you'd better hurry, or I'll shoot Ms. Adler while I'm waiting. Believe me, It would be a pleasure."

Sherlock shared a stricken look with Irene and turned to the safe and—John never knew how he pulled these things out of thin air—entered the correct code. "Vatican cameos," he announced as he pulled open the door.

Several things happened at once.

A shot came flying out of the safe and hit the man standing behind Irene as she ducked her head. John surged forward to tackle the man watching the door as Sherlock spun away from the safe, taking down the idiotic American. John saw his hand dart into the safe as he took in the chaos in the room. John made sure his captive was secure and looked over at Irene.

"He's dead," she told him. "How did you do that?"

"It's called a tackle. I'm sure you've seen one before."

Her eyes were intent. "No, I meant coming into the room without them seeing you."

John tried to look confused. "I snuck in and stayed behind the furniture. I did learn something about being stealthy in the army, you know. It was nothing special. I want to know how Sherlock knew the code."

He was relieved when Sherlock told him to go see how the intruders had gotten in. He was right about Irene Adler being annoyingly observant, and didn't want to give her a chance for any more questions. Or to do anything else that would arouse her suspicions. The last thing he needed was a potential blackmailer turning her attention on him.

Luckily for him, he was here with Sherlock—the one-man attention magnet. Though that wasn't always a good thing, when Irene drugged Sherlock to try to get the phone back from him. He had slipped it to John, knowing he was more likely to keep it hidden, but that didn't keep Irene from attacking him with her riding crop. Or from sneaking into Baker Street later that evening, to search and (how thoughtful) return Sherlock's coat.

Considering Sherlock's dazed condition, John had kept the phone with him and never heard her in Sherlock's room. He had no idea she'd even been there until the next day when Sherlock's phone rang with an interesting new text alert tone.

#

Sherlock never explained how he avoiding giving the phone to Mycroft, but his brother must have been satisfied, because a nice deposit showed up in John's checking account a week later. He almost wished he could work for Mycroft more often, it had such a nice effect on his bank balance. He almost felt charitable toward Irene Adler.

Until Christmas, at least, when she died. Not that he blamed her for dying, of course, nor had he wished her dead, but he hated the affect her passing had on Sherlock. He had never seen his friend looking so lost. Not by a normal person's standard, perhaps, but there was no question Sherlock Holmes was pulling into himself while he tried to deal with unfamiliar feelings.

John didn't know what to make of it. He knew better than anyone that Sherlock had a perfectly functioning heart, even if he hid it under layers of cold disinterest. No matter how deeply buried, though, heartache was heartache. Irene Adler had been the closest thing to an equal Sherlock Holmes had had. (Well, an equal who wasn't a psychopathic murderer or a close relative.) She might have been very gray in the morality zone, but there had been an attraction there, however little acknowledged.

The experiments with John's gift came to a halt. Sherlock ate even less than usual, and only expressed himself through invective at the telly or with his violin. John understood that a self-proclaimed sociopath would be thrown for a loop by an onslaught of unrequited love (or whatever this was), but found himself sighing over his tea and toast, hoping it would pass soon.

He was so wrapped up in trying to help Sherlock through his first heartbreak (or whatever), that John was taken by surprise when the sleek black car delivered him, not to Mycroft, but to a very-much-not-dead Irene Adler. It was all he could do not to explode at her the moment he saw her.

"Tell him you're not dead," he said, keeping his voice level.

"I can't. He'll come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't." He could feel his rage building. How dare she? He would be the first one to say Sherlock was inscrutable and irritating, but he didn't deserve to be messed with like this, especially by a blackmailing dominatrix.

"I believe you," she said, taking a step closer. "And you'd probably come closer than most, wouldn't you, Dr. Watson?"

"Because I'm that stubborn? Yes, I would," he told her bluntly.

"No," she said, "I mean because of that … knack you have. I haven't been able to stop thinking about how you saved my life that day, sneaking up on three trained CIA agents like that. That's not an easy thing to do."

John stood his ground, his rage turning cold. "Military training, I told you. They were focused on you and Sherlock. They weren't paying attention to me for that one, crucial moment and we all got lucky." He just watched her for a moment, back straight as he tried to throttle down the anger. "You, though, were explaining why you haven't told him that you're not dead."

She shrugged it off. "I need your help, Dr. Watson."

"No." He couldn't believe she could even ask.

"Look, I made a mistake, and you're the only one who can get my phone back. I need it."

He almost laughed. "You're kidding. You expect me to help you get your blackmail leverage back? Why would I do anything to help you? You don't even have the decency to tell Sherlock Holmes you're not dead!" He wasn't sure when he had started shouting, but he heard his voice ringing around the empty room, almost as loud as the ringing in his ears.

"Because I know people who would be fascinated at your … stealth capabilities, Dr. Watson."

"You're threatening me?" he couldn't believe his ears. After Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes, it was almost laughable. "You hurt my best friend and won't even let him know you're breathing, and then you ask my help by threatening me?"

"That is the idea, yes."

"I'll give you this, Ms. Adler, you're not timid. Is there anything you're afraid of?"

"There's a reason I need my phone back, Dr. Watson," she told him with a small smile.

There were a million responses he could think to make. He didn't actually want to think about who she might sell his name to—the idea of being trapped in a government lab gave him nightmares. But ultimately, his thoughts came back to Sherlock. The way he was eating even less than usual. The sad music coming from his violin. The trace of a lost little boy in his eyes as he tried to deal with an onslaught of unfamiliar emotions. So all he said was, "No."

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple."

"Yes, you are." Her voice was certain, amused.

And there it was again. "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, I am not gay."

"Well, I am," she told him, then just shook her head. "Look at us." Her hands made a helpless gesture as she pulled her phone from her pocket.

John just waited, swallowing down questions and insults. He honestly didn't know what to say to her. He wasn't worried about himself—she might be making threats, but they weren't anything he needed to worry about just now. All he needed to do was go straight home and tell Sherlock the woman was alive and then just deal with the fall-out, whatever it might be. But … what was he supposed to do right now?

He wasn't a fool. Irene Adler might be ruthless and calculating, but he believed that was real attraction he saw in her eyes. Not sexual, perhaps. (She was gay?) But she felt the same draw Sherlock did—the appeal of another mind equal to her own. John had spent enough time with people less intelligent to himself to know what a relief it could be to finally talk to somebody who he could actually relate to. For a person in the rarefied intellectual heights like Sherlock and (grudgingly) Irene, that mind-to-mind appeal had to be at least as strong as any sexual attraction—for Mr-Not-My-Area-Sherlock, especially.

John had a brief moment to wonder if he and Irene's assistant Kate would have anything in common, any shared experiences in trying to watch after their respective geniuses. He wondered if Jim Moriarty had anything resembling an assistant. He had a brief flash of the three of them sitting in a pub, commiserating over pints, and then blinked, pulled back to the present. Irene held up her phone and read out loud, "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner," and pressed Send.

Right, then. He supposed that was supposed to be a concession on her part, to make him more likely to help her—something he still very much did not want to do. He watched her, trying to decide his next move, his next sentence, when they both heard it.

The gasping moan of her text message arriving on Sherlock's phone.

He couldn't help it. He stepped forward, ready to go running after Sherlock—Sherlock who was somehow here, witnessing this meeting. How much had he heard?

Irene stared at him, raising her hand to stop him. "I don't think so, do you?"

John blinked, feeling suddenly lost. He might know more about emotions than Sherlock did, but at this moment, he felt completely out of his depth. All he was sure of was that he needed to make sure Sherlock was all right. "I've got to go," he said, eyes still focused in the direction the text had rung.

"Give him a minute," Irene told him. "He's had a shock and he's not the type to want witnesses."

John swallowed, unable to deny that, but not happy with it, either. "Nevertheless, I have to go."

"And my phone?"

"That rather depends on Sherlock, doesn't it?"

She raised an ironic eyebrow. "Do you let him make all your decisions for you, Dr. Watson?"

"No," he told her calmly, "But this is one where he's got the final say. And now if you'll excuse me, I've got a friend who needs me."

He turned and walked back the way he came, hoping he could find his way back to the car. Hoping the car would still be there. Almost hoping to find Sherlock waiting for him. But no.

#

John rode back to Baker Street in silence, unable to think of anything other than that Irene Adler was alive and Sherlock had found out in the worst possible way. John could only hope his friend would realize the meeting had not been his idea. He had no idea how he would deal with a Sherlock Holmes who felt betrayed by his best (his only) friend.

When he saw the note waiting on the door (_Crime in progress. Please disturb,_), he cursed Irene Adler again for keeping him away. What the hell was happening? He tore up the stairs, frantic, and stopped dead in the doorway. Sherlock was holding a gun on the bound CIA agent who had been after Irene's phone while a distraught Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch, arms wrapped around herself.

John hurried to her as Sherlock explained and caught a dark gleam in his eye as he mentioned restoring balance to the universe. He could almost feel sorry for the American for having made the grievous error of attacking Mrs. Hudson on probably the worst possible day. Violence was a very effective release for emotional turmoil, and Sherlock was having a very bad day.

Of course, the man had attacked _Mrs. Hudson_. He deserved whatever was coming, thought John as he led her down the stairs.

Thankfully, she was more frightened than hurt, but she let him clean the cut on her cheek and make her some tea, for a change. He sat with her while Sherlock talked to the police and before long the flashing lights were gone and it was just the three of them in her kitchen as Sherlock stole a mince pie from her refrigerator and gave her a hug.

John just smiled at the two of them. It might not have worked out well for the American, but Sherlock was obviously feeling much better.

Still, John needed to know what Sherlock had heard of the conversation between him and Irene Adler. He needed to know if his friend felt betrayed. He really needed to know if Sherlock had heard the threats. He might not care for John the way he did for Mrs. Hudson, but John knew that Sherlock did not take threats against him lightly.

Except, he wouldn't speak about it. He just played his violin and ignored John's efforts to air the topic.

John could only sigh and hope for all their sakes that Sherlock hadn't heard Irene threatening him. He didn't know what he was going to do about it. She couldn't have any proof of his gift, could she? Did she have cameras recording in her house that day? Most people wouldn't, but then, most people didn't blackmail for a living. Or threaten to blackmail. Isn't that what she said? That she needed her phone for protection, but didn't actually do anything with the information unless provoked?

Did refusing to be pressured into stealing it back count as provocation?

Would she actually sell his name, his gift, to someone out of spite?

He admitted to himself that he didn't like the woman. (He tried very hard not to capitalize the title in his own head, thank you very much.) He even admitted that he was biased because she had treated Sherlock so badly, even after he saved her life when those CIA agents had attacked. But he didn't know of anything actually violent about her (barring riding crops and recreational drugs). He didn't think she would really give him away without having a much better reason. Or proof, which he was reasonably sure she didn't have.

He and Sherlock never did discuss that conversation, though. Except for Sherlock's mood lifting, it might never have happened.

And then they came home one day to find Irene Adler asleep in Sherlock's bed.

#


	2. Chapter 2

John didn't think of himself as an irrational man. He was used to strangers coming and going at all hours, and this certainly wasn't the first time someone had broken into 221B, but crawling into Sherlock's bed seemed too low, too intimate even for Irene The Woman Adler.

Because, just like that, she had Sherlock's attention again—if it had ever truly wavered—and John wasn't happy with how uncomfortable it made him feel.

He knew people kept insisting he and Sherlock were a couple, no matter how often he denied it. He did, though, have to admit they had a unique relationship. They were definitely more than just flatmates. Sherlock was his best friend. Or, more than that, really. He was more like a brother—an irritating, demanding, difficult, childish, but ultimately loved little brother. The kind for whom you drop everything to run across the city when he calls. The kind you let get away with making mudpies or leaving body parts in the kitchen because it makes him happy. John will admit that he loves Sherlock, but it's decidedly a brotherly-love, not a romantic one, even if it's oddly codependent. The important thing is that it works for them.

So, why does having Irene Adler in the flat make him so uncomfortable? He remembered Harry dating a girl he hated back when she was about 17, and every time Pamela came to visit, his skin practically crawled. He wanted her nowhere near his sister and it was all he could do not to throw her out on her ear every time she'd sauntered in and crawled on top of his sister.

This didn't feel anything like that.

It wasn't just that Sherlock was showing however detached an interest in a rather despicable (if beautiful and intelligent) woman. It wasn't just that she was clearly manipulating Sherlock for her own ends. It wasn't even that she was threatening John. It was all these things put together

Not to mention that he didn't like feeling invisible in his own home. The two of them were so busy bantering and flirting (on Irene's part, at least), he might as well not have even been there. Of course, this made it more difficult for him. He was trying so hard not to let Irene see any part of his gift, and he always had problems turning it off when he felt ignored. Normally that wasn't a problem. He honestly didn't mind when people didn't pay attention to him, and it wasn't like he was 15 anymore. But well … this was different.

He admitted to himself that Sherlock's behavior … hurt. Sherlock had ignored him many, many times when his brain got caught up in a case or he delved too deeply into his mind palace. John had never taken it personally. It was refreshing, really, being ignored by someone who always knew he was there. Now, though? Sherlock was so caught up in Irene's presence in the flat that John might as well not have even been there.

By evening, he couldn't take it anymore. Sherlock had been deep in thought, or in his mind palace, wherever, for hours when John told Irene he was going out. "He probably won't even notice I'm gone."

"You do that a lot, then, Dr. Watson?" she asked silkily.

"Order take-out? Yes. We'd starve, otherwise. Can I get you anything?"

He knew he was in trouble when he saw the slow smile spread across her face. "In fact, you can. I had to leave my last flat in such a hurry, I left something rather valuable behind. It would be an enormous help if you could fetch it for me."

"I was talking about dinner."

"I'll pay," she said.

"We can pay for dinner, seeing how you're our guest, but that's all I'm picking up," he said, mentally wincing at the slip of the tongue.

Her eyes gleamed. "I'd really be so grateful, Dr. Watson. I'm sure getting in and out will be easy for a man of your talents."

He just stared, unwillingly impressed by her nerve. "I thought you were here to finagle your phone from Sherlock."

"That, too." She stepped closer and touched her fingers on his breastbone as he froze into attention. "It's just fortunate for me that both of you have something I want."

John refused to step away. "Well, you have nothing I want, Ms. Adler, and I don't trust you. All I'm offering is to bring you back some Chinese food. If you keep this up, I'll rescind the offer altogether."

She stepped around him, running her finger across his shoulders as she did, and he was reminded of a cat toying with a mouse—and then hated himself for feeling like the prey.

"Don't I, Dr. Watson? What about peace of mind?" She was practically whispering in his ear now. "I'll trade you mine for yours. You go pick up this innocent little package of mine and I'll take myself off so that Sherlock never sees me again. I'll leave the country and you can go back to having him all to yourself."

John swallowed. "I told you, we're not a couple."

"No, but that doesn't mean you're not jealous. I can read the signs, Dr. Watson. You love him. It might not be romantic or sexual, more's the pity, but it's definitely love, and I'm getting in the way of that, aren't I? Wouldn't you be happier if I were gone? I'll even skip the dinner."

John tried to keep his face still, knowing she could read his body language just as well (if not better) than Sherlock could. He didn't trust her an inch, but she was right. He wanted her gone. "Why me?"

Her hand had slipped around his shoulder now and rested on his chest as she spoke into his ear, her breath gentle against his hair. "Because you have … talents, Dr. Watson. You'll be able to get in and out without being seen with that … stealthy … military training of yours. And then, like you, I'll be able to … disappear."

His mind stuttered as he felt his heart beating faster, responding to her touch. The scent of Sherlock's shampoo was in his nostrils as she stole around him again to gaze up into his face. "It's a simple thing, I promise. Not dangerous. You'll be back with that Chinese food in an hour."

All he could think was how much he wanted her to be gone. He didn't even realize he'd made his decision until his mouth opened to ask, "What is it?"

#

Sherlock blinked and started to say something to John, but stopped, nose twitching as he realized the person sitting in front of him was Irene Adler, a look of rapt delight on her face.

"Where's John?"

"He went out. He told me you did that."

For a moment, he considered what John might have told her, but quickly realized it was a foolish line of inquiry. John did not like Irene. He seemed to have shrugged off their having almost been killed at her house in Belgravia, but John definitely held a grudge about her having drugged Sherlock. Since her arrival this afternoon, John had been polite, but stand-offish. He didn't think John would have said anything too personal.

She crept closer, asking about dinner.

"I'm not hungry," he told her.

"Let's have dinner anyway."

"Why would I want dinner if I'm not hungry?" Her question made no sense, unless ... she was talking about a date of some kind? But that still made no sense. It was dangerous for her to leave the flat, and there was nothing here to eat, anyway. He wondered if that was where John had gone, out to get food. It would seem unlikely that he would leave a woman he didn't trust unsupervised in their flat, though, but then, she'd been here alone before they'd found her this afternoon. Where was John, anyway?

She leaned forward with a smile and rested her hand on his. "If this were the end of the world, would you have dinner with me?"

His fingers curved up, cupping her wrist and noting her rapid pulse and the way her eyes were dilated in the firelight. And how she smelled of John.

John?

Sherlock studied her face, trying to think of a scenario in which she could have picked up the scent of John's aftershave but would cause him to leave the flat.

"John is out getting dinner," he told her, 96% certain, judging by the time of day and John's tendency toward feeding people.

Her lips curved even wider. "But, if it were the end of the world?"

His phone rang. "It's not the end of the world, it's just Mycroft," he said as he answered. She sat back on her heels as he listened, rising to his feet. "Let me call you back."

Sherlock disconnected the phone and stared at her. "What have you done?"

She just smiled up at him, as seductive and assured as before but suddenly infinitely less attractive. "Getting some insurance. I did tell you I need my phone back."

"And you believe threatening John will accomplish that?"

"It worked on him."

"So, what then? I have a certain number of minutes to concede before your men storm the flat with guns blazing?" He couldn't keep the scorn from his voice.

"Nothing so melodramatic as that," she said, slipping back into her chair and pulling her legs up. "I don't want him hurt. They're under orders to prevent him from leaving but were told not to hurt him if at all possible. I expect they'll wait indefinitely. Though the police might not be so patient, once the alarm system resets itself."

His entire attention was focused on her now—all of it, except for the portion locked on John, trapped in her flat across the city. "I'm sure I could get John off a charge of breaking and entering."

"Well, perhaps. It would look so bad on his record, don't you think?"

"But if I give you your camera phone, you'll call them off."

"If he hasn't gotten past them yet? Absolutely." Her voice dripped with sincerity and he had never wanted to slap a woman quite so badly.

Ah. Sherlock inhaled sharply. Of course. She'd seen John back at her house when the CIA agents attacked. She'd deduced his gift and was using it… "You have cameras."

An elegant lift to an eyebrow. "Naturally my home security system has cameras. One can't always rely on them, of course. That day you were in my house to steal my phone, there was the oddest malfunction, but luckily the camera angle was such that it didn't affect anything important. I've been much more careful lately, to arrange my security cameras just so. I'd hate to miss something useful."

And there it was. The blackmail. Give her back her phone or she would expose John's secret. "Like my friend being trapped in your flat while he does you a favor?"

Her eyes grew wide. "Don't you think that's something the police would find useful, if they were to pursue the criminals?" She rose to her feet in one fluid movement, firelight caressing the silk. "Is all this really necessary, Mr. Holmes? All you need to do is give me back my phone. It's not like it's doing you any good. I know you haven't cracked the password."

"If you believe that threatening John is the road to my compliance, you are sadly mistaken," he told her. "John is a friend, yes, but he's a soldier and used to taking risks. He can take care of himself."

#

John crouched against the wall and cursed. How the hell had he let her talk him into this? He'd expected a watcher, maybe two, but four? With guns? It was like that CIA debacle all over again.

He'd gotten into the flat easily enough. He had to admit that Irene Adler knew how to run for her life in style, because this place was every bit as elegant as the townhouse in Belgravia had been. She'd given precise instructions, though, and he'd found the safe easily (making sure to duck as he'd opened it).

Yes, retrieving the package had been easy.

Getting out, though? Not so much. They had the door, windows, and fire escape covered, and John didn't have any backup.

Granted, this might be something he could normally work around, but he'd just seen something that terrified him.

The red light of a camera, recording every move he made.

If he used his gift to get out of this, it would be recorded, and Irene would have proof she could use to blackmail him forever more.

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to stimulate any brain cells that might have an idea, and wondered how long he had before the men outside decided to stop waiting and came in to get him.

What were his options? He didn't dare use his gift, not if he could help it. He couldn't risk giving her footage of his "heat shimmer" effect as he walked right past the men outside. That just was simply not an option. He'd always been so _careful_.

Could he call someone? Greg, maybe? Yeah, he could just imagine how that call would go. "Hi, Greg. I've been caught in the middle of a break-in and could use your help? Oh no, nothing like that, I was the one rooting through the safe, but there are witnesses outside, so if you could come arrest me, or something, that would be great."

Um, no. That wasn't going to work.

What about Mycroft? That merited real thought. It was only thanks to Mycroft that he had crossed Adler's radar in the first place. It was ultimately his fault John was here, wasn't it? He knew about his secret and John was reasonably sure he would extend himself to prevent John being blackmailed. (Well, by anyone other than Mycroft, at least.) He'd probably be delighted to get leverage against Irene Adler, too, and he could probably have an unknown number of secret operatives here clearing John's way before he'd even finished the phone call.

Except then he and Sherlock would owe Mycroft yet another favor. Sherlock would never forgive him—or at least, would never forget. Still, it seemed a fair price to pay to get out of this unblackmailed, right? Better the enemy you know? Mycroft could probably have men here in less than ten minutes.

He jumped as a loud beep sounded through the flat and a mechanical voice announced, "An intruder has been detected. If the correct security code is not entered in the next 90 seconds, the police will be dispatched."

Oh, crap.

John grabbed for his phone and dialed.

#

Note: In my head, in this universe, Bond Air went smoothly. Moriarty has been in Mycroft's custody since shortly after the pool and so never gave Irene tips on playing the Holmes brothers, and never got involved with the Bond Air program which presumably went through without a hitch. Irene is just being Irene and collecting information for protection which Sherlock doesn't really care about. Just, in this case, she's trying to collect John—and _that_, he cares about.


	3. Chapter 3

John cursed Irene Adler as he looked frantically around the room. There had to be another way out of here, didn't there? She couldn't have thought of everything.

Or, maybe she could. He had a number of options, but none were the kind he liked. He could sit here and wait to be arrested. He could stroll outside and be shot. He could try sneaking out like a normal person and risk being arrested or shot.

Or he could use his gift to get safely away without risking life and limb but leaving evidence behind so that he could be blackmailed for the rest of his life.

The cameras were the real problem. He supposed they must work in the dark, but had no idea how his gift's shimmer effect would show on an night-vision camera. And what if she had a heat-sensitive one as well? But then, what if he just shot out the cameras? Of course, there might be hidden cameras (there probably were), but … in the dark, with at least fewer cameras? With him concentrating as hard as he could on NOT being filmed? (Because it's not like Mycroft ever bothered to tell him if his efforts actually worked on the shimmer effect, and somehow, neither he or Sherlock had pursued that particular detail.)

One problem, though, he thought. He'd left his gun back at the flat. But, wait … he went back to the safe and wrenched its gun from its holder and checked. Three bullets. Right. He could work with that.

First, he needed to make sure that bloody blinking red light was the only camera in the room.

#

"If you believe that threatening John is the road to my compliance, you are sadly mistaken," Sherlock said. "John is a friend, yes, but he's a soldier and used to taking risks. He can take care of himself."

Sherlock and Irene just stared at each other, neither willing to yield, until Sherlock's phone rang.

Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock answered the phone.

_"You haven't given her the phone, have you?"_

"No."

_"Good, because her trap wasn't quite as good as she thought—or at least, I hope not. I'm on my way home."_

Sherlock didn't let the relief show on his face. "The security system?"

_"Yeah, booby trapped to call the police after ten minutes. That was a nice touch to force me along. Lucky for us, I think more clearly with more adrenalin, so that actually helped."_ Sherlock could hear a huff of a laugh as John's hurried footsteps echoed through the phone.

"How much time?"

_"So far as she's concerned, I'm down to my last 3 minutes before the cops arrive. I should warn you, though—I had to call Mycroft. I couldn't be sure I'd caught all the cameras."_

Sherlock stifled a grimace as he continued to stare at Irene. "Yes. Do what you have to," he said and then disconnected the phone. "A timer on the security system? A dummy, I assume, to pressure him. You wouldn't risk the police actually arriving."

Irene shook her head. "The party's never as much fun once they arrive, but the thought of them? Much more powerful. Did he say how much time he had?"

"Three minutes."

"You'd best hurry and make your decision then, Mr. Holmes. If you don't give me my phone, your friend is going to end up in prison or leave me with photographic evidence of his quite remarkable gift."

He stepped forward and leaned down to speak into her ear. "I don't take kindly to people trying to blackmail my friends." Sherlock looked past her and said, "Do I, brother?"

Mycroft's smooth voice came from the doorway. "It does seem to bring both the best and the worst out in you, brother."

Irene's eyes were wild. "You would give up on him that easily?"

"I told you, he's a soldier. He wouldn't thank me for yielding—to you or to sentiment."

"Sentiment?"

"Yes, the weakness found on the losing side. And do you know how I know?" She shook her head, suddenly showing hesitation. "Because I took your pulse."

He pulled her phone out and, without breaking eye contact, punched in four letters before handing the phone to Mycroft. "I think the data on here will more than make up for any favors John might have called in, brother."

"Indeed it will. As it was, it was a simple matter to black out all the camera feeds in the flat—those that John hadn't been able to dispatch on his own, that is. He and the package he was sent to retrieve are quite safe."

The firelight was shining in the tears in Irene's eyes now. "You can't. I won't last six months."

Sherlock just looked down at her. "Pity about dinner," was all he said before Mycroft's men came in and took her away.

#

An hour later, John was sprawled in his chair, eating Chinese food and explaining. "I finally decided that I had no way to know how many cameras she had scattered around—and knowing her, I expected a lot of them. But I did what she would have expected. I shot out the visible ones with the bullets she left me, and then made a point of opening all the doors and windows. I figured that would draw the attention of whoever was watching, so they wouldn't know which way I was coming out."

"Good diversionary tactic," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "Yes, that's what I thought. Then I went to the light switch and turned the lights back off and, well, disappeared at the same time—except instead of ducking down the hallway and risking the cameras I knew she had to have out there, I just … hid behind the door."

A small smile. "That's so very cliché, John."

John nodded. "I know, but sometimes the old tricks are the best. I'd already called Mycroft and asked him to see what he could do about the cameras. I knew they had to be broadcasting to somewhere remote—there was no way she wasn't recording everything that happened—and I didn't trust that I'd gotten all of them—and, of course, I couldn't do anything about the ones outside. So I waited until Mycroft sent me the all-clear before I snuck out, right past the people she had watching and called you."

"It was a close call," Sherlock said, staring into his takeaway box of Kung Pao Chicken.

"I know," John said. "I knew she would do something—have ever since the day we met her. She _saw_ me, Sherlock, and she knew about my gift. Maybe not the details, but that there was _something_. I just hope she hasn't told anyone else."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't think so. She holds the secrets she collects for her own protection. She may have wanted proof of your gift in action—that would hold much more weight than a mere anecdote—but I don't believe she would pass that information on unless we drove her to it."

"By, say, having her locked away in a secret prison cell or let out to run for her life?" John asked drily. "Because, having taken the rest of her secrets and given them to Mycroft, it's not like she's got much else to fall back on."

Sherlock paused a moment. How had he missed that? Not only did The Woman know (or suspect) about John's gift, but she now had no other means of protection as well as a healthy grudge against him. He just shrugged though, and said, "Mycroft will take care of it. It's a good thing you found a way out of her trap, though, or things might have been different."

"I'm just glad to be shot of her, frankly," John said, stretching out his legs.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "But still, she did make things interesting."

"Interesting?" John sounded indignant. "She flirted with you. She convinced you she was _dead_, Sherlock. This was no ordinary case."

"Exactly." Sherlock clipped the word with his teeth. "Interesting."

John just huffed. "Right. All that extra turmoil, the long sessions with the violin, her sitting right here in the flat flirting with you … all that was just 'interesting'."

Sherlock glanced at him. "It bothered you, didn't it? Her flirting."

John blinked and almost squirmed in his chair. "She's a dominatrix. She probably can't help herself."

"No, it's the primary tool of her trade, like observation is of mine," Sherlock said, eyes steady on his friend. "You're never invisible to me, John."

A quick, flashing glance from John and then, "I know that. Sometimes it's bloody annoying."

"Hazard of being my flatmate," Sherlock said.

"Easier to live with than fingers in the fridge," John conceded. "I'm not saying your observational skills haven't come in handy. You found her password, which had to help."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the glow of pleasure at the memory. "Yes, though it took me longer than it should have."

"S.H.E.R, right?" John asked and then grinned as Sherlock felt his face freeze. "What? I'm not blind, Sherlock. I saw the way she looked at you."

Sherlock stared down into his chicken again, stunned. It was far too easy to underestimate John, the man never failed to surprise him which just part of what made him so remarkable. He had a point, too, about what Irene's desperation might drive her to do. He should probably take steps to make sure she wouldn't act on it. After all, keeping John safe was paramount, wasn't it?

#

When Sherlock went out of town on a case months later, John didn't give it a second thought. He was too busy cleaning out the refrigerator and feeling a sense of relief at a day's peace.

#

John never connected Sherlock's absence with Mycroft's report of Irene Adler's beheading in Karachi. Why would he? It wasn't like they owed Irene any favors, was it?

The thought that his friend might be protecting him from being one of The Woman's secrets never crossed his mind.

Soon, though, Irene Adler would be the least of his worries. Because, as much as he hated the thought of being blackmailed, the thought of government laboratories frightened him more than Afghani insurgents, master criminals, and Semtex vests combined. But when Henry Knight came with a mystery about a gigantic hound near the labs at Baskerville, that was exactly where they were going.

##

Note: Yes, Baskerville is coming—the embodiment of John's most hidden, most secret fears. And believe me, his worst nightmare has nothing to do with a large dog. Originally they were all going to be in the same piece, but this was such a logical ending point and such a rough transition between the Irene Adler story and the Hound story—I split them. The next piece is coming soon, though, I promise!


End file.
